Monthly Archives: February 2012

Cleaning House.

We’ve all had the feeling of needing to purge the less than wanted from our lives. The clutter, the trash, the broken, the old. Hopelessly scouring to reveal the clean slate our souls need.

Sometimes we rid ourselves of the people, the cluttered, the broken, the negative, the old to make way for the new, the better.

And sometimes we get cleaned out. Thrown out with the trash, let go like an heirloom that’s no longer loved.

It happens.

And we say and we hope, “It’s all for the best.” And maybe at first we don’t even notice the split. “We’re all better off.” Afterall.

Then there’s the times you see it happening all too slowly. You see the river widening, the shores split apart, you can see the ocean in the horizon, and you can look back to the small trickle that began it all.

Do you turn back? Build Bridges? Fill in the gap?

Do you let go. Let the current take you further?

Do you care?

I’m getting things crossed off that list, the one with 101 things to do in 365 days. And of course that is all sorts of awesome. Getting things done are the things dreams are made of, especially with a bazillion animals and young minions. But yet I’m lacking on one MAJOR area…

“Finish the first edit of Denali”

“Write a Short Story/Flash Fiction”

In all honesty it’s been weeks, maybe even a month since I’ve pondered those two things.

So my brain pulls up excuses… “You’ll get to them when all the other need to be done’s are done.”“Maybe you SHOULDN’T be writing.” “Maybe you should just be a rock farmer.” “You just suck.”

*headoven*

At first slacking in the blogging/social media world was great. I lost the constraints I was giving to myself, stopped hearing other people’s words and ideas instead of mine and all sorts of freeing epiphanies. And then I just lost interest.

Did I lose the muse?

Did I ever have one?

*insert image of my brain and I spinning in circles*

I’ve whined, complained before, thinking maybe this just isn’t for me. But right now my brain seems to be pretty much convinced. After all, shouldn’t a passion fuel it’s self???

And what “writer” takes months off over and over again, no one will take that seriously.

And is it the book itself? Is it the ideas? Is it me? *pours more coffee*

Do I start over? Do I just force myself to do it? Do I sell straw hats at an intersection?

Do I chase away all of my fellow readers by constant whining and pondering of my worth in the world of words?

I knew you were dying for yet ANOTHER book review by me. Actually I knew you were dreading to have to wait another second after my last captivating review on The Birth House. So just for you I wasted countless hours of precious sleep time so I could have another review ready immediately.

And since the last book was about abortions and liberal topics, this one is a wee bit more wholesome, as I’m all for balance and stuff.

And when I say a wee bit more wholesome I do indeed mean that this is a Christian book through and through. BUT DON’T CLICK OFF, not yet. As I do think it’s premise is awesome (yes I said AWESOME) for even those without faith in God or a god, or what have you.

The writer begins by telling her struggles with losing faith, losing God as she, at an extremely young age, watched her sister die, hit by a truck in front of their house. Her family torn apart by this tragedy, her sent down a spiraling path of self-torture and hatred. Tragedy after tragedy affects all those who she loves, and she’s left wondering WHY. What is the purpose? How can people thank God while he’s ripping away loved ones???

And then piece by piece, day by day she begins to unlock the key, the secret in being truly thankful. Giving real thanks, having real thanks, passing on true thanksgiving. All with a small challenge from a friend to simply write down One Thousands gifts, just one thousand things that she could find thanks for.

Ann is a writer of a different, uh… flavor. Her words come out in more of a prose story telling form, and sometimes it causes you to read back, stop and reflect to get the whole point behind the words. Which of course works well during the telling of her personal life.

The book is, again, extremely Christian, with many accurate biblical references throughout the entire book. So not everyone will enjoy it as I did. But it’s still worth the read.

As time allows I will be posting my One Thousand Gifts and as a challenge to you, I DARE you to do the same, even if you don’t read the book. Everyday just stop for a few minutes and write down anything that comes to mind that you’re thankful for. It’s amazing how it can change your outlook. You don’t have to be Christian or of any faith to appreciate all the small things in life we overlook in our rush to get to the next day. So DO IT!

And go read the book, I give it 5 stars.

Disclaimer: Dear feds, I bought this book over a year ago and had it sitting on my shelves. I was not paid to review this, and receive absolutely nothing for this review. Thanks.

I’m going to be bad for a minute, maybe even evil. Please do forgive me.

The boy child has been doing awesome lately, at home and at school. Working hard, using manors, pulling his weight. So for a change of pace, with him being off for a four-day weekend, I took the kids BOTH to Mc.Death’s (eh hem, McDonald’s) for the first time ever… INSIDE, where they have a playground.

His jaw dropped from surprise.

We stuffed our faces with chicken nuggets, and the minions dotted their faces with katsup and crumbs. They ran, they played, I sat back and laughed. Good times, a special treat, while my sourdough whole wheat bread cooled back at home. (That’s me stressing how special of a treat heart-attack food is for us)

Finally I wrangled them up, threw on their coats and did my best to balance an 18 month year old, the hand of a 6-year-old, a diaper bag, two happy meal boxes and drinks out the door.

And then I hear, “My children will be so lucky to have ME as a mom. I just hate dirty children, with dirty hands, dirty clothes and dirty faces. Some moms think that dirty nasty kids are just fine, but NOT me. Nope, my kids will be clean all of the time.”

I barely glance around. The words of perfection and ultimate knowledge of proper child raising was coming from in between bites of someone who really should not be eating a third pounder double Angus bacon cheeseburger, extra-large sized. If you get my drift (please take no offense to this comment!!!!!!!!) In her lap laid a new-born baby, head thrown backwards, almost falling off of her lap.

I giggled.

I might have snorted.

A new mom. Ain’t that precious.

I kept on walking, kissing the katsup stain on my baby’s face, her giggling in return. I give miss perfection 6 more months before she gives up on the perfect children idea.

I’m laughing still, just thinking of the ideals we all develop in those first few weeks of motherhood. My child will NEVER do that! I would never be THAT kind of mom! There’s just no way! Haha… FAIL.

We all give in some where at some point.

And for me today it was junk food and katsup dotted faces. And it was one hundred percent worth it.

Ps. Just ’cause I have to say it. The minions were clean, beyond the katsup on the baby’s nose. So she probably wasn’t actually talking about me, or to me… but still. ;p

A while back, several bloggers dished out challenges all related to reading. And if my lovely, sweet, dear dino-dial-up was in a better mood this morning I’d link them all up for you. But just booting my blog took a half hour, so my apologies to the challenge givers and such.

Reading in this house can be harder than pulling a tooth. Kids and dogs and a husband… and dishes and laundry, and gardening… and and and….

Finding books around here is almost a suicide mission. No library, no bookstore, unless you count Wal-Mart and its fifty copies of New Moon…

But I simply cannot turn down a challenge.

So my reading list is small, with a goal of only fifteen. But the challenge is in the books themselves… *insert dramatic music* They have to already be in my house, or free on kindle. Dun DUN dunnnnnnnn. Or even worse, available at the local wanna be dollar store. *shivers*

And I am lying a wee bit. The first three books I read this year were the Hunger Games, and I paid full price. Butttttttt, sometimes you just have to. And technically I bought them before January and they were lying around my house…

And here’s the rant of it all. And why I might divorce WordPress. I have a nifty program I’ve been using for a while, passed down to me from another friend. It lets you search all the random searches I come up with during the day, and in turn gives me points that I can use to get gift cards to buy anything I want… like books! And it just so happens that in turn I can pass it down to others, and earn points off of them… and earn more BOOKS! But WordPress won’t let me share it with you. It eats my links anytime I post them. Um HELLO freedom of speech, this is my blog and if I want to spam it I should be able to… right? Well not here, but my blogger blog lets me… so yeah. And I’ll probably get another nasty note from WordPress about threats of suspension and such, but if you’re interested in joining, or want to know more, just email me (barefootcoffeegirl (at) gmail (dot) com). Neener.

And because I’m famous for long-winded blogs here’s a quick book review for you… which I’ve never done before, so bear with me.

The Birth House by Ami McKay

This one I picked up at my local wanna-be-dollar-store. I kind of, almost, just closed my eyes and picked one. It was just one of those days where I needed a new book, and I really didn’t care what it was, as long as it wasn’t some sort of fluffy romance novel.

It was/is well written, and apparently by some famous Canadian journalist or something like that, but the verbage confused me, and I kept thinking it was from New Orleans instead of Nova Scotia. But that’s my own blonde brain problem, lol.

The story is about a girl, in the time of World War I, and how women were facing issues on rights over their own bodies, healthcare and the like. She soon becomes a live in apprentice to the town’s only midwife who is more like a gypsy/voodoo healer than she is the christian believer the writer tries to portray. IMO. Anywho, the book goes on through births, evil husbands, life in that era and the struggle when modern medicine moves into town. And on how the main character, Dora Rare finds herself and her calling in life.

The book was interesting, interesting enough that it held my attention and I wanted to finish it. But the ending was common, just the way you’d thought it would be, like the writer ran out of ideas and just closed it up as quick as she could. Kind of like the end of Mocking Jay. You’re drawn, reading, reading, wanting more, caught up in the whole ordeal, and then it just stops all wrapped up and fuzzy. I hate that. But that’s just me.

The other part I didn’t like was again the storyline that this was all christian, Jesus loving, Mary mother of God, but voodoo like medicine played a huge role, as did abortions. Which to me does not mix, but it probably wouldn’t bother others who aren’t of my conviction.

Keeping this short, I’d give it a 3 out of five. My attention was held, but it’s not a re-reader. I’m not running out to look for other works by the author, but I would pass the book on to friends. So there ya go.

They taunt, they squeeze, they twist, they leave gaps little can fill.

Breadcrumbs of hope laced with sweet honey, they offer perfection and the ending I’ve so been longing for. The winds soon gust, wiping away the trail, scattering the hope in places unreachable.

I wake.

Unsure of what my mind is trying to say.

I can guess, and try to name. That one moment must be in the shadows of my shelfishness. That one there, maybe it’s telling me if I got ahead of the game things will be alright.

I guess. I push. I want to know more.

I cannot command my dreams. I can only beg for more. For more pieces to solve the riddle. A riddle with no answer, a riddle to the story without an ending.

I try to keep my mind from buying into the jumbled movies, the thoughts, the images flashed through my head as I sleep. But they weigh heavy as I keep on with the day… there in the dishes, there in the meals, there in the kisses and hugs and bed time routines.

I come to terms with the year and plus time that has passed since she was here. I’ve dealt with most of those fears, hurts, losses, struggles. But it’s in the dreams that I feel. It is in the dreams that I’m unraveled. It’s the dreams that get me.

There’s snow outside my door, lots of it. And yes I’d probably claim 1/4th of an inch of snow to be lots. I think the grand total this morning is 5 inches with a coating of ice on top… I have no interest in actually getting up to look.

Our mild winter has been destroyed by freezing temperatures over the past week, and I’ve had to break out the heavy-duty, extra-large travel mug just to keep my coffee from getting cold on the whole ten foot walk from the coffee maker to my laptop.

There is one benefit to winter, and only one: playing with dirt… INSIDE.

Which is actually just odd, to have your fingers covered in dirt, while the fireplace crackles and the snow falls down in sheets of blizzardly hell. But it is that time of year. The time to rip open those seed packets, to cover your entire dinning room in dirt, and to balance those seed trays high with great hopes of the summer bounty they are sure to bring in.

And maybe I just really enjoy grasping at the few hairs of spring that are slowly sprouting up, and pulling it all in towards me with every inch of strength I can muster.

My days have been spent with soaking, freezing and planting seeds as I pretend to not notice the blizzard outside my windows. And I only wish that shelves and grow lights weren’t so dang expensive, as my laundry room is already filled with onion sprouts, broccoli and other herbs that I just had to have. I have no more room and tomato seeds looking for a home in two weeks. Spring fever has me in a choke hold.

There, I said it. I like Valentine’s Day. I like heart-shaped boxes filled with chocolate. I like roses. I like cards. I like sappy little small nothings of a gift with heart shaped tags. I like romantic candlelit dinners.

It took me years to be able to admit to the fact that I dig hallmark holidays. I used to hide from everything girly, banished pink from my life, and spoke loudly on how roses were an awful waste of money.

(I was lying.)

(I was playing tough in those single days of I don’t need NO ONE)

Sure, sure, of course love should be shown year round. Simple little gifts from the heart should abound for no particular reason. And no you don’t need Hallmark to tell you when to be romantic… But…

I can’t resist a day to do something other than the ordinary, especially in the dead of winter.

And don’t forget the best part of Valentine’s Day, the day after when all that glorious chocolate goes on sale!

How about you? Do you dig the day of cupid? Or did I just make you puke all over your keyboard?

She left us all too long ago. Nothing more than a memory lingering on our souls.

It’s strange how much one person can affect so many, even when you fight the knowledge, not wanting to give attention, to feed the fire. It’s strange how much one person can affect your own self, even when it shouldn’t.

My stepdaughter, my husband’s daughter left all that she knew, all that we thought she loved over a year ago. Vanished into thin air to pursue a faith we were too sinful for.

Of age, and too stubborn to sway there was little anyone could do. We lie to ourselves, promising better results had we just said a little more, loved a little deeper, stood up just one more time. I doubt little could have been changed.

She didn’t go alone. She was weak and fresh into postpartum depression (un-diagnosed), and her mom, complete with her own list of troubles, wisked her off into a romance of being perfect with God, and better than this world. Abandoning her new husband, her new child and anyone that was not chosen.

I could diagnose, point fingers, speculate and blame. But that time has passed.

We heard little at first, and now we hear nothing. There’s been small traces of paths, and I do believe that I know exactly where they are. But her blood family wishes for me not to act on what I know, and that I must respect.

I keep writing, keep sharing our story, for reasons I can’t explain. The months of crying and questioning have passed, the urgency has fizzled. Life after all can’t stop moving, and one can’t sit still forever.

I was never close to her, I never became her stepmother. We talked, we shared and we laughed, we were both pregnant at the same time. We had a bond of our own, nothing deep, nothing intimate, just an understanding of two souls who were so different but so the same, forced together into an instant family.

I get why she ran.

So I suppose I keep writing, I keep sharing, because some where inside I know there’s good in this. One day the words will become clear, the story will flow and the ending will finally be made known. And that’s the trouble. Writing a story without an end.

I’ve been asked repeatedly by family members to write on this, beyond my blog that I had long abandoned. But how does one write a story with no ending? I guess that’s my own mystery to find out…

You’d think that by now I would have something to say, something, anything to write about, but I’m still pretty blank.

I think somewhere along the line I drew up some nasty constraints on where this whole thing would go. There would be plenty of this, a little of that and absolutely NONE of that or this.

Kind of like Stephen King Putting his name on a Romance novel, if you get my drift. Boxed into a certain flow, a certain genera, specific expectations, afraid to disappoint. Stifled.

Smothered.

Life changes, different seasons of growing and learning flow through, and what once needed to be said no longer holds its luster. But yet you’ve built your podium with crimson roses and ruby stained wood… and now you detest the color red. But everyone knows you and your ruby-red stage, they’ve come to see those crimson roses… and you, you want to paint it all yellow.

Have I lost you yet?

The shoes of fiction novels drowned in demons and blood sucking uglies just seem five sizes too small. Blogs of wit and sarcasm just feel all scratchy and stiff. The world all seems to be made of hand-me-down clothes that you never would have picked for yourself… and for some reason I’m really on some odd analogy kick today.

So what does fit? Today it would be homemaking, and homesteading as I’m down right ill with spring fever. (and also to be fair I might still be delusional from that damn rampid stomach flu and fever the boy brought home from school) (but I have noticed that I do tend to get a heck of a lot of reading done every time I’m dying in the bathroom, here’s to already being on book 5 and 6 of this year’s reading goal)

And yes I am an expert at going no where fast.

For now I’ll keep my fingers away from deleting this whole blog, and I’ll stop my mind from dreaming up new titles and layouts. Maybe I’ll venture out of my tight, long-sleeved, funny little jacket, and stop hiding away in secret little hidden blogs, or from the whole interwebs in general…